


Curmudgeon

by Ursula



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-20
Updated: 2010-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ursula/pseuds/Ursula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter has a knee injury while El is with her sister who is on bed rest at the end of a difficult pregnancy. Neal volunteers to care for him. This was written as venting for WP Admirer. Peter may be out of character or not. I think he would be a difficult patient.<br/>Spoilers: None really other than series facts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curmudgeon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WP Admirer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=WP+Admirer).



Title: Curmudgeon  
Author: Ursula  
Rating: Adult Slash  
Genre and/or Pairing: Peter/Neal (With mention of Peter/Neal/El

Notes: When Peter has a knee injury while El is with her sister who is on bed rest at the end of a difficult pregnancy. Neal volunteers to care for him. This was written as venting for WP Admirer. Peter may be out of character or not. I think he would be a difficult patient.  
Spoilers: None really other than series facts.  
Warnings: Humor and slash, mention of threesome  
Word Count:   
Summary: Written for WP Admirer.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including Jeff Eastin and USA television. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

OooOooO

At the airport see El off, Neal reminded himself that he was a con artist and an expert at portraying emotions he didn't feel...such as any degree of calmness in this situation. Otherwise, he would have fallen to the floor of the terminal, grabbed El's leg, and begged her not to leave him.

It would be okay. If it wasn't, Neal could find an excuse not to stay over. His mind kept going back the night Peter spent with him at June's. That had been a total disaster. Neal hoped Peter had deliberately tried to be an ass! Neal knew Peter did not behave like that at home because El would not have it...she who had trained Peter to close the toilet lid every time.

"What's up?" Peter asked as he observed Neal's expression.

"Nothing," Neal said, trying to force a smile. "I'm just going to miss El."

"Me too," Peter said. "Listen, I think I'll kick back tonight, watch sports, drink beer. You might want to stick to June's."

"Thanks, I will," Neal said.

"But tomorrow will be our night," Peter added with a soft engaging smile. "I'll make it as perfect as I can. Promise you that you will have no regrets."

Neal found himself beaming at Peter. He said, "I won't. Have fun tonight."

"I will," Peter said.

Peter dropped Neal off at June's, didn't go in, and so did not give Neal a kiss good night. Peter was not the romantic one. No, he wasn't.

OooOooO

In the morning, Peter looked tired. Neal asked, "Did you have trouble sleeping without El?"

"What? Oh, no, I watched the sports channel all night until I fell asleep on the couch," Peter said. "Never get to do that when El is home."

"Sounds very indulgent," Neal said, remembering there were nights when he painted until dawn or read a book to the last page or listened to the same symphony twice in a row. He tried to understand that Peter's passions were not lesser because they were different. "I'm glad you had fun."

"I just hope this is a quiet day," Peter said. "My back is sore from sleeping on the couch."

Morning coffee was bought on the fly. "Come up to my desk," Peter said. "We have that information on the Harkness case."

Harkness was one of several elderly victims that had been scammed out of life savings. The perp promised insurance benefits no matter how sick or old the customer. When his marks quibbled, he pointed out how sad the life of their partner would be without the benefits. Harkness' wife had pancreatic cancer. He had wanted to have the money for one more controversial treatment. Instead, when she had died, the policy did not provide the money to bury her. He was losing his home and was being sued for unpaid medical bills. Neal's heart had gone out to the old man. He felt almost sick hearing Harkness' story.

"We run a scam right back," Neal said. "Moz does a great old man. We'll set him up as the mark and Lauren as his terminally ill daughter. The guy is finding people through ads on Craig's list. Moz will respond and we'll catch the son of a bitch."

"You're sure that Moz can handle it? He seems so...nervous when he is acting," Peter said.

"Well, yes," Neal said. "This is his best role though. He bases it on Mel Brook's ten thousand year old man."

At Peter's raised brows, Neal said. "No, really, it's great. Moz just loses himself in the character. You have to see it."

OooOooO

Moz was encased in a realistic character mask which made him look like death warmed over and shrink wrapped. His voice quavered. He wore an old fashioned hearing aid, but it apparently didn't work well. It let loose a high pitched shriek from time to time. He was relaxed and into his performance, impressing Peter.

Lauren was also made up. She looked terrible, definitely a dying woman in her hospital bed. The confidence man broke three appointments, a common practice in more cautious cons, making sure that the mark was part of a set up. Peter's surveillance caught the con man watching to see if it was a set up.

The perp's caution was why Neal and Peter were the only members of the team close by Lauren and Moz. They were at the neighbor's house, a chatty lady with two big dogs. She was swooning over Neal and had made enough cookies to supply the entire FBI.

Nibbling at a cookie, Neal was gently flirting with the rather large lady and petting the dogs. Neal loved dogs. These were rescued greyhounds and were built a lot like Neal, lean, elegant, all sinew and heart. One of them had a paw on Neal's knee and was staring up at him with big loving eyes. Peter laughed and said, "That dog has to be related to you. Oh, Neal, I am starving for that cookie....bow wow wow. Oh, Peter, I'm so hungry and don't have lunch money. Oh, Peter, I just have to go to the Metro or my wee little soul will die."

"I do not sound like that," Neal said, tossing a throw pillow at Peter.

"Neal, be respectful of our hostess," Peter reproved.

"Sorry, Ms. Meyer," Neal said.

"I never liked that pillow," Ms. Meyer said. She was very tall, not fat, but tall with enormous feet. She had broad features and grey eyes beneath a fading head of blond hair. She was a close friend of Mr. Harkness and really wanted to help. The house that Moz and Lauren occupied belonged to her and was between rentals.

"Pay attention," Peter said. "Here he comes."

The confidence man looked so ordinary. He was just under six feet, proportionate, a bland, clean-shaven, round face. He had brown eyes and sandy-brown hair, neatly combed. He was as bland as Neal was extraordinary. Peter wondered how that worked for him. Did people forget him as soon as he was out of sight?

The man went all the way to the door this time. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Peter switched on the web cam and watched Moz hobble to the door so slowly that it was agonizing to watch. Bent over, Moz fumbled at the door knob.

Excited, Neal said, "See? I told you. Method actor in this role. This is his best!"

"Uh," Peter said.

"Mr. Cahill?" Moz quavered. His liver spotted hand trembled as if palsied. "Come in, come in."

"Father? Who's here?" Lauren's voice called out feebly.

"What?" Moz asked. The hearing aid resonated.

"Who is here?" Lauren shouted.

"The insurance man," Moz replied. "You want some coffee? Good old Folgers..."

Hobbling off before the man could respond, Moz clanked around in the kitchen for long moments before limping back with two ancient Pyrite cups. He fumbled with lumps of sugar until the confidence man grabbed two and threw them in his cup. Moz blinked through his even thicker than usual glasses, this pair with a bent frame and a cracked lens.

"Now, let's talk about your policy," the man said.

"Great," Moz said, adjusting his hearing aid. It wailed again.

"You want experimental methods covered and home nursing care for your daughter?" Mr. Cahill said.

"Yes, there is the gene therapy method in Cancun," Moz said in his ancient voice. "Lori believes in it. Seems like witchcraft to me."

"We can cover the flight and everything," Cahill promised.

Around the house, Peter's team had plenty of time to move into position as Moz read the policy, moving his lips, taking his glasses off, putting them back on, holding the papers in weird position.

Peter agreed. It was Moz's best role ever.

OooOooO

Neal was uncomfortable. He reminded himself that he never picked on a victim who couldn't afford to lose a little(or a lot). It still didn't help much with his ill-accustomed guilt. He tapped his fingers against the chair in which he was sitting.

"Doesn't look as clever and harmless from this point of view."

Refusing to dignify that with an answer, Neal picked up the case file to read more about Harkness, wanting to make sure that Moz was safe. He honored his deal even when it put him in danger, but Moz wasn't part of the bargain. Being held at gun point was not good for his friend's nerves.

"He's moving!" Peter shouted into his phone. Jones was ready with a couple of the other agents to back them up in a van a block away.

Peter dashed out the door, but Neal was close behind him.

Following Peter, Neal sprinted ahead as the con artist tried to escape. One glance at the pursuit and the man threw away his briefcase, running astoundingly fast. Neal didn't listen to Peter's shouts. He wanted to catch the guy, hoped to get back part of the victim's losses.

And, no! It wasn't like chasing himself. It wasn't the same. He wasn't a small time crook like this who hurt the most vulnerable. He didn't want to think about Mr. Gless who he had met three times since helping to save his daughter. Gless was not a bad guy despite being rich.

Cahill went over a fence like an Olympic hurdler.

Peter was keeping up and Neal could hear shouts. He recognized Jones' voice. "Neal, wait up."

Neal glanced back at the top of the fence. Jones was sprinting. He kept himself in great shape and passed Peter, also in good shape, but older and never a track star like Jones.

"Come on, Jones," Neal shouted breathlessly.

Somehow the idea that Cahill had a gun hadn't crossed Neal's mind. Cahill stopped in someone's pretty garden and fumbled in his jacket.  
Neal saw the gun, but he was already surging forward, all pounding heart, blood racing, focused on tackling Cahill before he could hurt anyone else.

The solid thud of his body against Cahill felt good. Neal caught the sight of the gun flying through the air out of the corner of his eye.

"Get the fuck off me," Cahill growled, shoving at Neal, bucking against him.

Muscles more like silk than cords fooled you. Silk is strong. Neal held on. He took an elbow to his chin but didn't loosen his grip. Art can be painful, can strain the body as much as a brutal two mile march.

Jones and Peter took over, cuffing Cahill, pulling him to his feet, and reading him his rights. When Neal caught his breath, he smirked at Cahill.

Glaring, Peter lectured him. "You could have been shot. Neal... You may be a cat with nine lives, but I think you have already lost eight of them. You..."

Peter had been moving as he yelled at Neal. There was one moment when he was striding forward, finger accusatively pointing at Neal as he came closer to do who knows what...spank Neal by the look on his face. Then Peter's hands flailed as if he was trying to learn how to fly, Neal ran to catch Peter, but it was inevitable for Peter to fall backwards, his body twisting and his face twisted in panic.

Thud. Peter hit the ground and lay there uttering a series of 'fuck, fuck, fucks'. His leg was bent under him in a manner Neal recognized as totally wrong.

"Don't just stand there. Help me up!"

No, no way. Neal shook his head, grabbed his phone, and called for an ambulance after the timid home owner stuck her head out to give him the address through a crack in the sliding glass door. She...a tiny little grey haired lady holding a gun half her size...would not come out to open the back gate no matter how many id cards were flashed her way. Neal picked the padlock. If he wasn't sure that Moz had been hatched from an alien egg, he would have been certain that this was his mother.

The police backup arrived late, but that freed Jones to help Neal.

Peter struggled to get up, despite the grunt of pain when he moved his leg.

"Don't make me sit on you!"

"That's not much of a threat," Peter replied with a smirk.

Jones rolled his eyes and said, "Listen to Neal, boss. I got extra cuffs and I'm not afraid to use them."

"Oh, Jones, if I knew about this bondage fetish, I would have proposed long ago," Neal drawled, syrup-sweet.

Jones laughed, but Peter wasn't up to the joke. His eyes were narrowed. His mouth was a straight line of pain and irritation. His forehead was so furrowed, it might never recover.

The siren sound was a fast approaching promise of relief.

OooOooO

Peter's irritation veered over to fear as the medics made dismayed noises over his knee. Injuries meant nothing to Peter when he was young. Now he worried. He felt the same in his head and worked hard to make his body fit. Sometimes he thought he was as good as he ever was. This time, his doctor tsked over his knee and said, "Peter, you are not a teenager anymore. Injuries take longer to heal in your forties."

 

At Peter's affronted look, Doctor Case raised his bushy brows, shook his head, pronouncing like a sentence, "It's a fact of life, Peter."

Fact of life, be damned. Peter wanted to be as fit as Jack Lalane at ninety as long as he didn't have to drink all that juice every day.

"Jones, bring Caffrey to the hospital!"

Oh, crap! What was El going to say? Peter couldn't believe he got across the fence almost as fast Jones and Neal only to trip on a rock. That was what it was. An ordinary river stone, sitting in the middle of the flower bed. Who the hell puts a rock in their yard? It was crazy.

Peter's knee was screaming agony now. He had to arch up to look at it to make sure it was not pulsating to four times its normal size and constricting back to the size of a rubber band. The cold pack gave some relief, but not enough. "Why the hell does it hurt so much?"

"We think you ripped the ligaments in your knee," the older paramedic with the rust red hair and fading freckles explained.

"How? I just fell on a rock!"

Peter had once chased Neal across the rooftops of Chicago. He had leapt from one steep roof to another steep roof without falling or even landing badly. Neal had teased him about being part mountain goat! It was beyond ridiculous that a mere spill could sideline him.

The rest of the trip passed in a welter of sharp smells, pain, and worry, sprinkled with a seasoning of humiliation.

OooOooO

"We better call Elizabeth," Jones declared.

"No, you don't know. El's sister, Amanda, is having a hard time with her pregnancy. They're really close and it would rip El up to come home."

Neal slid into Jones' car after making sure that Moz was okay. Moz was headed home, having refused a ride, his old man makeup peeled away and a satisfied smile on his face. Neal mimed applause before saying goodbye.

"You know, Neal," Jones smoothly merged with traffic. "you're not Superman. You weren't wearing a flak jacket and I've told you about that. "

"I couldn't let him get away." Neal shook his head. He knew why it was so important and he didn't want to think about that.

Jones had a great laugh, a sexy laugh and he knew it. His chuckle wrapped around Neal and teased a smile. "Too close to home?"

"Hardly, you've read my file," Neal scoffed. "I never played anyone like Harkness. I have a heart."

"I know that." Jones concentrated on driving. He was a great driver, unlike Peter. Neal always hoped that Peter would let Jones drive when he was with them, but his wish was seldom granted.

Feeling drained, Neal shut his eyes, leaned back, and let the sixties soul that Jones liked roll over him.

OooOooO

"I called El and told her that I had a bum knee so you were going to stay with me until I can walk without a crutch."

Peter was lying on a gurney, leg up and iced. He was waiting for X-Rays. His eyebrows seemed to be growing together and the furrows between resembled the Grand Canyon. "Jones, go make sure that the booking isn't screwed up on Cahill."

"Sure, boss, just let me know if I can do anything for you."

"I'm going to need my laptop. Might as well get Caffrey's too."

Neal had a computer at work. It was linked to Peter's so Peter could check on him at any time he felt like it. Like Neal was going to do any research for his unofficial projects at work!

Neal wished Peter would just relax and let Neal take care of him. They both could use some downtime. From relaxation to sex was an easy jump. Neal's mind moved restlessly to thoughts of what sex positions would work with a disabled knee. Not many, but it would be a creative challenge if Peter was in the mood at all.

"I can hear you thinking."

"Hey, it's all good thoughts. I was thinking about physical therapy for you."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Neal wished he could kiss Peter in public. What a pain in the ass closeted relationships were...if Neal ruled the world, the rule would be tell, tell, tell! Sing it from the rooftops. Shout it in the streets. Love should be a celebration that everyone enjoyed. Peter and El should be able to propose to Neal on bended knees. They should have another wedding with Neal as the cake top groom and maybe a garter on his knee for them to slide down his leg symbolically..

"It's okay."

But it wasn't. At least, this would be right. Neal would take care of Peter like it was his duty and his right. He would show the world that he was no flight risk. He would be the best, most patient and loving care taker there ever was.

OooOooO

El was an angel. Neal had always known that, but never to the degree that he knew now.

Peter Burke was a demanding subject at best, but injured---injured he was a monster.

"Neal!"

"Yes, my love?"

"The ice tastes funny."

"It's the same ice as yesterday."

"Now it tastes funny. Go make some more."

"Of course, Peter."

Neal almost made it out the door before Peter yelled. "Neal!"

"Yes?" Neal had never thought he had the potential for violence before but it was thrust upon him by this bizarre, grouchy, not sexy and complaining Peter.

"There's something wrong with my pillow."

"Let me fluff it."

Better yet. Let me fluff it and hold it over your face. Neal realized he was failing as long term lover material. He had dealt with Kate's difficult periods during which she seemed to transform into Medusa crossed with Camille. Alex had leg cramps which caused her to kick him out of bed when he was sleeping soundly. Moz snored like a stegosaurus.

That left El who had no flaws other than being gone right now.

Darling Peter, whom he thought was too good for him had become this thing that yelled, nagged, and who was impossible to satisfy.

"Not that pillow. It's the one under my knee. There's a huge wrinkle."

"Peter, you hate having your knee jarred."

"It feels like something sawing right through me."

"Okay. Okay."

Peter's knee was grossly swollen and hot to the touch. Neal's heart melted a little. Peter was in pain and there was something worrying him that he didn't want to tell Neal about. As if he was handling an ancient and badly preserved manuscript, Neal lifted Peter's knee, braced it, and smoothed the pillow.

"Can't believe those are the hands that picked a thousand locks and forged so many works of arts. You got a grip like a stevedore."

Smile. Neal had practiced his burnished smile until it looked real even if he felt his worst. He could glisten that smile when some disgusting old multi millionaire was pawing him.

It shocked Neal that he could not even muster even a thin veneer of a smile for Peter.

Stiffly, Neal reminded himself that Peter was in pain and walked out of the room to make ice cubes.

The refrigerator was not smelly. El would not tolerate disorder in her home. Everything was labeled and dated. Nevertheless, Neal cleaned the freezer, scoured the ice cube trays, and made fresh ice with bottled water. Peter was running a fever and he craved ice.

The pain medication finally eased Peter's grumpiness. Neal had warm and loving thoughts about the guest bed and possibly breaking house rules by allowing Satchmo into bed with him. A glass of wine, a good book, and the soft soothing sounds of a symphony would ease his mind.

When Neal helped Peter back into bed, he kissed him goodnight and started to move away.

"Where you going?"

"I thought you would sleep better if I slept in the guest room. I'll leave the door open."

"You don't want to sleep with me just because I can't have sex?"

"No, of course not," Neal assured. Peter blinked his lashes and his mouth even trembled a little.

"Then just sleep here so I don't feel alone."

It was romantic. Peter reached over stroked his hair and ran a thumb down his cheek to his mouth, teasing his lips open.

It was nice until Neal turned over as he wanted to sleep on his stomach.

"Hey, can you stop throwing yourself around like a walrus? That hurt."

"Sorry." Neal froze into place, willing himself to sleep like a statue.

In the long run, Neal could have spared the worry.

As Neal was about to drift off, Peter nudged Neal with a very sharp elbow. "Neal, I want some graham crackers and milk."

Brain fuzzy, Neal said, "What?"

"Graham crackers and milk. My Mom always gave me graham crackers and milk when I was sick."

"Okay, be right back."

Only there were no graham crackers anywhere in El's beautifully kept kitchen. Neal ran upstairs and informed Peter of this fact.

"Why aren't there? It was on the shopping list I gave you?"

Peter had given Neal a shopping list, but had fussed so much about being left alone that Neal had put off going to the store.

"I can't sleep until I have them."

"Here's your cell phone in case you need it. The only thing open is the Fairway so it will be awhile."

"Hey, don't drive the Taurus. Neal? Neal!"

OooOooO

"Jones, sorry about calling so late, but Peter wants graham crackers and milk. No grahams in the house and the nearest store is more than two miles from Peter's. Can you get them to do an exception so I can go to the all night Fairway?"

"Graham Crackers?"

"With milk. I guess it is his comfort food," Neal said uncertainly.

"Yeah, that and deviled ham. Hey, I probably should have mentioned but Elizabeth has mentioned that Peter is a difficult patient. As in she once called me and asked how someone could commit the perfect homicide when Peter was home with the flu."

Processing that, Neal asked, "What did you tell her? Give me the details."

Laughing, Jones excused himself to call the US Marshals.

Neal set the GPS for the Fairway, fondling Peter's toy with malicious intent since Peter bitched every time he touched it. He considered that he could keep on going, make a fair distance before anyone twigged to his dereliction. El's sweet gaze reproduced in his mind's eyes stopped him. He remembered the passionate and giving lover that Peter was. He remembered the faith that Peter had in him and he knew he would do the right thing even if it killed him.

The Fairway was soothing. Neal could spend an hour in the olive oil aisle alone, browsing in the endless variety and the palate teasing descriptions. He planned a nice chicken cacciatore for tomorrow. The wines were really decent and he added a selection to the cart. He was puzzling over why he was buying ham, pork shoulder, and so many onions when Peter called.

"Where the hell are you? Did you go to New Zealand for those crackers?"

"I'm getting everything on the shopping list since I'm here. Peter, why am I buying both ham and pork shoulder?"

"Because that's how I like my deviled ham."

"Oh, Peter..." Neal struggled with his inner demons that wanted to tell Peter how truly awful a food deviled ham was. "Peter, I can't make deviled ham."

"Sure you can. El left her recipe right out on the counter."

El's sudden fall from sainthood was swift enough to cause a sonic boom. Neal knew El's loving welcome into her heart, her marriage, and her home was too good to be true. She had foisted Peter and his deviled ham off on him and fled with a lover. Neal had noticed how fond Moz was getting of El and how El seemed to notice and be flattered. He resolved to make absolutely sure she knew where Moz was. Moz wasn't a problem like Peter once you got past his paranoia, his abundant critiques of everything, including perfectly good blowjobs, and then there were the bad sub-titled movies. None of these unfortunate foibles were as bad as a passion for home-made deviled ham.

Knowing now how the martyrs felt when they marched into the coliseum to face the lions, Neal added the required spices, the celery, the chives, and the red pepper into his cart. His nose already twitched with the imagined scent of this carrion food permeated the house.

OooOooO

Arriving home, Neal heard Peter yelling before he so much as had a foot in the door. He filled a plate with graham crackers and added a bowl of milk to the tray. He reminded himself that the taste of arsenic was ill-concealed by graham crackers and milk. Alas, Peter had no taste for almond cookies.

Arranging the bed tray carefully, Neal placed the graham crackers, milk, spoon, and napkin.

"What took you so long?"

"It's amazing how many people shop after midnight."

"I bet you had to stop and chaaarmmm them all, the Neal Caffrey way."

Neal wouldn't dignify that with a response. He said, "You enjoy your crackers. I have to go down and bring in the rest of the groceries. "

"Can't wait until you make me the deviled ham. It's exactly what I need to build up my strength."

"I wanted to show off my chicken cacciatore tomorrow."

"Sure. Later. We have a week before El comes home."

A week. Neal had completed three years, eight months, and two weeks of a four year sentence. A week should be a snap. He wondered what it would take to get tossed in solitary in this joint.

OooOooO

Neal had brought in the groceries, removed Peter's tray, bowl, and spoon, took them to the kitchen to wash, and then, thankfully, lowered his tired and stressed body to the guest bed since Peter was sleeping. He CERTAINLY didn't want to wake his terrible patient.

Satchmo climbed into bed, huffed a sigh, and patted Neal with a careful paw.

Neal snuggled into clean, undemanding dog scent. He whispered, "Satchmo, my man, why don't we run away together?"

A whiff of incredible stench came from the canine. Neal remembered El laughing about 'labra-gas' when Neal fed the dog from his plate. "Did Peter feed you graham crackers?"

Satchmo turned around to eye his rear end as if it might be some kind of monster attacking him. He might be right.

"Fine, now Peter mined my only uncomplicated relationship. Go Satchmo."

Neal opened the window and tried to clear the room. He added some lavender scented Febreeze, waited for the room to smell bearable.

Long moments later, Neal settled back down with Satchmo making sad eyes at him from the hallway. He normally found sleep difficult when he was stressed, but was so tired that he plunged immediately into sleep.

A Peter with dangling long yellow furred ears yelped steadily at him. This Peter smelled of deviled ham and worse. His tail drooped from trousers that were wrinkled and shiny. "Neal, Neal, Neal, wow yow wow."

Waking, Neal realized Peter was yelling at him and Satchmo was whining, almost howling. The moment Neal got out of bed, Satchmo dashed for the stairs. Neal knew what that meant and ran after him. He let Satchmo out the back door and breathed a sigh of relief before going back upstairs to see what Peter wanted.

Finding Peter on the edge of the bed, Neal lost it. "What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to hurt yourself?"

"I have to go and you weren't here for me."

"Satchmo had to go out badly."

"I may have let him have some graham crackers and milk."

"You may have."

"So I did. He's my dog. You're always feeding him. Here, shut up, stop complaining, and help me up."

The trip to the bathroom was not good. Peter went white faced from pain no matter how careful Neal was. He made Neal shut the door for him and that frightened Neal. After all, problem patient as he was, Peter was Peter and Neal loved him.

Settling Peter back in bed, carefully settling his knee on the pillow, Neal kissed Peter's wrinkled brow, petted him on his rigid jaw, and said, "I love you."

Kissing Neal's hand, Peter said, "I know. Thanks for being here."

OooOooO

Neal woke to the sound of something falling.

Oh hell!

Peter was on the floor, fortunately having caught himself on his good knee. His face was beet red with pain.

"Peter."

Through gritted teeth, Peter said, "Don't say it. Just help me up and to the bathroom. Why did you let me eat so many graham crackers? You know what they do to me!"

Now Neal did. Now...

Not rushing despite Peter's urgings, Neal shepherded his lover to the bathroom, reminding himself of how much he cared for Peter. He stood outside until Peter sheepishly asked for help.

"You want a shower?"

"Yeah."

Leaving Peter sitting on the toilet, Neal got a chair. Going upstairs, Neal freed Peter's knee from the brace. He was supposed to take that off last night and hoped that forgetting wouldn't cause any harm. Thoughts about gangrene worried him.

"You don't love me. Your resentment is written all over your face."

Hey! Of all the times, Peter might make this accusation, now was not the time. Neal's expression was one of concern.

"I was remembering that the brace is supposed to be off while you sleep. It might have saved you some injury this morning, but we have to remember to leave it off so your blood has time to circulate."

"Great excuse."

Silence was the best answer. Neal got Peter's tee shirt off and slipped his underwear off. Peter really should just go commando, but he insisted on putting on boxers.

"Careful. Careful."

As if Neal would let him slip! What in the world was wrong with Peter? Neal had seldom seen Peter show more than a flicker of fear for himself. Maybe he would show his anxiety when El was at risk or Neal. Peter showed restrained worry for victims and people caught in the crossfire. Even when Peter was shot a few months ago, he was a hero as far as Neal knew although he admitted that El had done the nursing so perhaps this was the normal state of 'patient' Peter.

Peter lifted his face to the hot shower. Neal decided the best way to help Peter was to strip down and squeeze into the shower with him. It was a great idea. Grabbing a bath scrub, Neal used a good dose of his own bath oil on it. He closed his eyes as the scrub traced Peter's contours and his hand followed, palm full of sensation as he explored the hard, well developed muscles of Peter's back. Neal's cock twitched with interest and he remembered that today should have been spent in love-making.

"Stop!"

"Did I hurt you?"

"I don't want what you are offering! I wouldn't have enough control and I'd move my leg."

So much for romance...

Or sex.

"Let me do your hair, at least."

A grumble seemed to convey agreement. Neal carefully washed Peter's hair, taking the time to massage his scalp and temples. After he rinsed, he kissed Peter's head, feeling sorry for both of them.

"That's good," Peter said. He leaned back, adding, "I'm sorry I'm so grouchy."

"You're in pain."

A slight shake of Peter's head made Neal wonder what else it could be. He helped Peter out, gave him towels to dry himself, and then guided Peter's boxers and some cut off sweatpants onto his lover's body.

Dressed, Peter insisted on going downstairs, wanting to have breakfast and watch TV. Each step made Neal's mouth go dry with dread. He took most of the weight, Peter's arm over his shoulders. He had an absurd desire to sing, 'He's not heavy; he's my lover.' When Neal helped Peter sit at the table, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Do you want me to cook you something?"

"No, just get me my cereal."

Ah, for light hearted days when Neal could pilfer through Peter's cereal and only get a scowl. The mood in which Peter was currently could get Neal arrested. Neal made himself Irish Oatmeal, his comfort food. Peter looked at the oatmeal, liberally doctored with raisins and brown sugar, and said, "You could have offered me some."

"I can make you a bowl."

"It's too late now. I ate cereal."

Okay, Neal admitted he had one brief infatuation with saint hood when attended Catholic school. He had prayed every day, read the lives of the saints, and asked the nuns what it took to be a martyr. The next year his hormones kicked in and he was a lot more interested in classic Greek culture with all the pretty people quite naked. He did not expect that his sainthood would be determined by his patience with his lover, but, he was willing to argue his virtues. All he had to do was get the Cardinals to observe this incarnation of Peter Burke to substantiate his miracle.

After breakfast, Peter migrated to the couch. Neal propped his leg and resumed the hot and cold alteration that he was told would help Peter's knee stop looking like a cantaloupe atop his leg. Peter switched through the channels.

"There are no games on. Since when did poker count as a sport? Three golf games in slow motion. Isn't baseball the great American sport?"

Even Neal knew it was basketball season!

Switching to on Demand, Peter paged through the offerings, the free movies, all of which struck Neal as dreadful. Suddenly, Peter lit up and shouted, "Neal, come here. You have to see this. Now this is a classic."

Happy that his lover was happy, Neal sailed over and joined Peter. A moment later, his mouth gaped.

"Bubba Ho Tep? Bubba Ho Tep? Elvis is alive and fighting an evil mummy? This is not a real movie."

It was. Neal sat through it, waiting for someone to admit that the director, the writers, and the actors were insane. No disclaimer.

"Why is JFK black in this movie if Ossie Davis is really JFK?"

"They dyed him. Hey, why is a big metal crate of blue and white laundry art?"

Peter had a point.

"You don't like Tiles of Fire, do you?"

"Huh?"

"Good."

OooOooO

Jones brought the laptops and some cold files just in time to save Neal and Peter's lives. "How's it going? Any new cases? How's the case building on Cahill?"

"No new ones. The AD is pleased with the work we did and I found some additional documentation at Cahill's apartment. I think it will be a clean conviction."

Jones looked uncomfortable, but Peter didn't want him to leave. "Sit down. Neal will make some coffee."

"That's okay. I don't have time. Hughes wants a meeting in half an hour so I don't have time."

"Let me change. If Hughes is having a staff meeting..."

"Hughes said to tell you that he's suspending you if you step foot in the office before the week is out."

"What?"

"El called him."

"Who called El? All I told her was that I had a minor knee injury."

"Like El couldn't read you better than that," Neal said. "She called me and I told her I could handle it."

"Handle it? You can handle it? Big fucking sacrifice after I risk my career. After I---"

Neal shaking his head no and look of panic stopped Peter before he blurted something Jones would have to forget for friendship and regret forgetting for professional ethics.

"Boss, I really got to go."

"Yeah, sorry for the outburst. I hate being laid up. Really, Jones, it's fine."

As Jones left, Peter turned his gaze on Neal and it hit him like a punch to the gut. Neal looked miserable, almost afraid, and ---he looked ashamed, a look with which Peter would not have thought Neal capable.

It hit Peter then. He was so caught up in his own pain and his fear that he had been venting his anger on Neal who really didn't have to play nurse, was bound by no vows or law.

The phone rang before Peter could say anything.

OooOooO

It was El. Neal had taken two steps towards Peter before he realized she was saying that she needed to speak to him in private.

"It's for me. I'll be right back."

Neal could still enjoy the look of paranoia in Peter's eyes, sockets narrowed to a slit, eyes glaring between, lips half lifted in a snarl.

Ducking into the kitchen, Neal followed Satchmo to the door and went out with him.

"Hey, El, I really miss you. How's your sister?"

"She's still not doing well. What's happening with you and Peter?"

"Everything is fine."

The lie was flat, not his usual fluent fibbing, but this was real and uncomfortable. It made Neal doubt himself. He wanted to have what Peter and El had so much that he had inserted himself into their relationship, believing they wanted him. He talked so much about needing to trust, but he felt as if he was failing Peter. If he met Peter's needs, surely Peter wouldn't be so impossible.

"Don't lie to me, honey."

Neal squatted to pet Satchmo. He sighed and said, "Peter's just impossible."

"He hates feeling helpless."

"I'm not doing things right. He's angry with me almost all of the time."

"I hate to say this but have you talked to him? Ask him why he is upset if it's anything beyond his injury."

The phone tucked in place by his shoulder, Neal rubbed Satchmo's ears. "Okay, I'll try."

"He loves you. I love you. Don't worry, Neal. You don't have to be perfect with us. We're not perfect and, oh, I'm sure you fully realize that now after taking care of Peter. I'm not going to rush home, darling, because I trust you with him. I trust the two of you to take care of each other."

OooOooO

"Who was that?"

"A friend and that's all I'm saying. Hey, if you're good for a while, I'll make your deviled ham."

Now Peter smiled and said, "Yeah, I'm good. Don't put anything in it that's not in the recipe. I want it just like El's."

"Believe me; I don't want to put any elegant touches on deviled ham."

While the ham and pork shoulder baked, Neal sat down next to Peter. To his surprise, Peter put an arm around him and kissed his forehead. When Neal looked into his eyes, Peter's hand cupped his face. Peter leaned close, their lips merely touching for a few seconds. Neal arched toward Peter, reached for him. Peter's mouth pressed hard and Neal opened to him, wanted for once to be totally open.

"Mmm" It buzzed between them: Peter's hum of pleasure.

Opening his lips, Neal was hungry for a deeper kiss and Peter gave it. Wet, hot, Peter's tongue teasing him, claiming him. Fingers stroked his hair then slipped under his shirt, pinching his nipples, playing with them.

"Neal, I need you."

It was easy to pull down the boxers and sweats. Peter was hard and his slit was shining with precum. Neal took him fiercely; afraid it might be the last time. That Peter was falling out of love with him. His hands pinned down Peter's thighs to keep the bad knee from moving. The taste of Peter, his scent, the very texture of his skin, the heat of his cock were all things that he made part of him, stored in his soul and deep in his brain where no one could take them back. He felt the burn of tears even as he felt the demands from his cock for touch, to thrust, for something more than the accidental friction of the couch.

When Neal reached for himself, Peter choked out. "No, wait for me. Let me."

Neal could give that to him. He took Peter deep, making Peter's hot flesh a part of him. He stopped to breath and explored Peter with a questing tongue, tracing the veins, Peter's cock jumping in his mouth. He felt the sudden jerk, Peter's hands pulling slightly on his hair as Peter cried out with his pleasure. Peter's cum shot down his throat.

"Come here." Peter's voice was rough, demanding, and sexy. This was the Peter for whom Neal had fallen.

Up on his knees, Neal was worried that it wouldn't work and that Peter would lose balance. He didn't though. His mouth was as powerful as his voice. Neal barely had time to arch and moan though. He was too near, shooting into Peter's mouth the way he had been too polite to do in the past. Peter swallowed and licked him clean with a cat like smirk on his face.

"There, there. You're mine."

Of course, Neal was. Peter's. His heart, his body, his mind.

"I am."

"Come here," Peter said again. Bringing Neal close, Peter held him, kissed his forehead, stroked through his hair. "I don't want to lose you. I don't."

This was his lover. This was Peter. Neal soaked it up, tried to believe that he had not failed his beloved.

"I'm sorry that I can't take care of you like El does. I've been trying so hard."

"Fuck!"

Neal looked up and saw Peter's expression. His eyebrows were pulled down like they did when he was angry, but his mouth drooped. Peter blinked and turned his gaze away. That was astounding. Peter's clear direct gaze was the hallmark of who he was, a soul so sure and untroubled that he could look any man or woman in the eye.

"Peter?"

"I'm afraid."

And that sentence terrified Neal. "Afraid of what, Peter?"

"That I'll be sidelined. That I won't heal. That I won't be the guy you and El love."

"Oh, Peter."

Neal tried to put it all in his gaze. "Peter, we want to grow old with you. You'll probably still be chasing some younger Neal when El and I are huddled in rocking chairs, knitting scarves."

"There's only one Neal and I have him."

"Yes, you do."

Standing up, Neal went to get wet paper towels to clean Peter. He remembered that he had left Satchmo in the garden and the dog was nose to glass, looking forlorn. He would have to wait.

Peter laughed at Neal as Neal tried to clean him with crumbling paper towels. He said, "I think I need another shower. Maybe a nap."

OooOooO

With Peter resting the sleep of the sated and Satchmo waiting with begging eyes at the threshold of the kitchen, Neal sliced some of the ham and pork shoulder to eat later. The rest he cubed. Such a lot of work for so humble a food! Chopping the gelatinous mess into tiny chunks and then mixing the onions, mustard. Tabasco sauce, Worcestershire sauce, Paprika, and Parsley. Maple syrup seemed a weird ingredient, but El said it went so Neal added it along with a ton of mayonnaise. When the mess came out of the food processor, Neal wrinkled his nose and then chopped the celery to add the crunch that had so often plagued Neal's ears when Peter was enjoying his aromatic feast. There it was, a heap of quivering pink monstrosity.

Neal put his creation in the refrigerator, glad that Moz was not here to see his downfall, and cleaned up the kitchen to El standards.

Peter's voice was soft and affectionate when he called. Neal helped him back downstairs, made him a sandwich, and waited for the verdict.

"Just like El's." Peter took a large, loud bite and said around it. "Thanks, Neal. This is so good."

Neal could not bring himself to try the concoction, but he was pleased.

This was Peter and he was not perfect. This was Peter and Neal did not have to flawless to be loved by him.

Neal took a deep breath. He had stayed the course. He had not abandoned Peter when he was at his most awful.

No vows said aloud, but this was for better and for worse. This was forever, even during the hardest of times.

This was love.

OooOooO


End file.
